


Strawberry Shortcake, Cream on Top (Tell Me the Name of Your Sweetheart)

by misslizanne



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 19:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslizanne/pseuds/misslizanne





	Strawberry Shortcake, Cream on Top (Tell Me the Name of Your Sweetheart)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



It’s been a long shift at the station, with David taking the night off to be with her mother and little Neal, and her muscles ache and her feet are killing her and her head is throbbing (too many calls about Leroy causing problems at The Rabbit Hole for one evening, thank you very much) and now all she wants is a bath, and a cup of tea, and then sleep. Lots and lots of _sleep_.

She enters the apartment she and Henry have been renting near the docks, not noticing the door is very much _unlocked_ even though Henry is at Regina’s for the evening, and walks into dim lighting, the aroma of lavender and vanilla wafting in the air, slow guitar licks humming from her stereo. There’s candles lit on the ground, illuminating a pathway towards the other end of the apartment and she scans the room to find a meaning behind all of it.

“Hello?” she asks into the space, startling when Killian appears from the hallway to her bedroom, clad in his leathers and a thin black shirt.

He grins as he saunters in her direction, careful to use the pathway she now assumes he created. “Welcome home, love,” he murmurs, reaching out for her.

She naturally falls into his embrace, placing a quick kiss on his lips. “What’s all this?”

“Well, I figured you needed a night to relax,” he states, gesturing for her to accompany him on the short trek to wherever these candles lead them. “And so...”

He guides her into the bathroom, and she takes notice of the tub filled with soapy water, the edge lined with more candles, red rose petals scattered across the sink counter and the floor. It looks like something out of a sappy chick flick, but despite its corniness (in another lifetime, she would have panicked and then ran), it feels _genuine_ coming from him.

She looks up at him and smiles as he holds out her bathrobe for her to take. She’d ask him to stay, but they aren’t even at that point in their relationship, and he senses that in the slight stiffness of her shoulders.

“I’ll leave you to it, love,” he states with a nod of his head. “Surprise number two is waiting in the living room when you’re finished." He closes the door quietly, disappearing into the apartment. 

It’s strange, his innate ability to care for someone so fully without expecting anything in return as she rids herself of her clothes and slides into the warm bath, sighing as the water relaxes her muscles and her mind. She knows that’s who he is though, this _man_ with this insane capacity to love someone with every fiber of his being, this honorable _hero_ who would go to the end of the world for her (or _time_ , as David has told her over and over again because Killian reinforced his belief in true love back then, and that makes her that much more confident that he is her everything as well).

She gets out of the tub, wraps herself in the bathrobe he’s left for her, smiling the entire time. She makes her way out to the living room to see he’s lying on a blanket on the floor listening to the soft lull of the music, eyes closed, right arm nestled behind his head. He’s humming along, unaware of her presence and it’s then that she notices the fancy tray of chocolate covered strawberries propped above the floor, whipped cream to its right, two glasses of red wine placed on the coffee table.

She shakes her head, chuckling breathlessly as she tiptoes her way around the couch because he must have asked Henry or David about what to do in this instance, and of course they gave him every stereotypical romantic gesture in the book.

He opens his eyes slowly to see her, cascading waves of golden hair, satin bathroom clinging to her form, skin warm and blushed from the bath.

“Is this surprise number two?” she asks, gesturing to the set-up.

“Aye,” he responds, leaning up on his elbows. “I hope it’s to your liking. Henry said strawberries were your favorite, and your mother told me that you enjoyed your fair share of red wine.”

“And the whipped cream?” she taunts, leaning over to pick up a strawberry, popping it into her mouth.

She sees his gaze hone in on her lips as they wrap around the fruit, tongue darting out to lick his. “Ah, uh, well, the clerk at the store suggested it and—”

She kneels down on the floor next to him, selecting another strawberry and scooping up a dollop of cream with it. She licks the fruit clean before taking a small bite of it, smirking when he gulps hard because of her actions. “Well, it’s wonderful. You’re wonderful.”

He scratches that space behind his ear (he does that when he’s nervous, or he feels unworthy, and she wishes she could get him to stop, because she’s his, damn it) and forces a smile to his lips. "If you say so, love."

She places her pinky into the whipped cream, leaning over to put it on his nose.

“Bloody hell, woman!” he shouts through a chuckle, rubbing it off with his sleeve.

She dips her strawberry through the cream and shoves it into his mouth. He grumbles through it but decides to eat it anyway.

“Stop being such a grump, Killian,” Emma teases, lying down on the blanket.

“Oh, we’ll see who’s the grump.”

He reaches for the cream himself, taking a whole glob of it and crashing it onto her cheek. She shrieks as tries to bring her hand to her face to remove it, but he swats it away, pinning her to the ground so he can lick her cheek clean, grinning widely as he tickles her sides. She tries to wriggle herself away until she finds his lips warm against the crook of her neck, beard scratching her skin, the playfulness slowly turning into something more as he brushes his lips down her neck, slow and soft and dear Lord, everything is on fire inside of her.

He pushes the satin of her bathrobe aside, kissing down her collarbone as her fingers rake through his hair. He pulls away for a moment, looking down at her with that face he always gives her, the eyes that speak a million words of love and hope, the mouth that parts slightly at the sight of her, the eyebrows that raise in silent question.

He attempts to lift himself off her, because while they’ve spent time together and of course, they’ve _kissed_ , it’s never gotten to _this_ and suddenly, she feels like a teenager. He looks absolutely nervous, and she’s trembling. She reaches up for him, pulls him down into a kiss that’s bruising, unrelenting and flavored by cream and strawberries and chocolate mixed with the heady taste that is just _him_.

His hand cups her cheek, his body pressing into her completely. Her hands wander down from his hair to his chest, fingers toying with the buttons, unfastening them quickly.

“Swan,” he moans between kisses. “Swan, what are you—”

“Shut up,” she scolds him, pushing the shirt off his shoulders and discarding it to the floor. “I want this.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, and his eyes are filled with so much uncertainty, it hurts. After everything, he still doesn’t think he deserves anything from her.

“I’ve never been more sure,” she assures him, pulling him down for another kiss.

His hand wanders between them, untying the robe and slipping it off her frame, exposing her breasts to the cold air of the apartment. She arches into him, feeling his arousal through his leathers, his lips leaving hers to trail down her neck, leaving soft caresses on her breast, tongue lapping over her nipple. His hand continues its path, heated touches to her abdomen, her thigh and then he’s right _there_ , rubbing at her core, causing electricity to hum in her veins.

“I need you, Killian,” she pleads, hands fumbling to undo the complicated laces of his trousers. She shoves the tight pants hastily down his legs before he kicks them off, lifting her up slightly to rid her of the bathrobe.

He lays her back down gently, eyes raking over her entire form, gaze full of lust and passion and _love_ (true love, _true love_ ). “Gods, you’re a vision.”

She blushes, looking down to avoid the sentiment he’s offering, but he pulls her gaze back to him, wrapping his arm around her back, hook firmly placed in a notch in the floor as he lifts her hips towards his, slipping into her and filling her up completely.

He doesn’t move at first, watching as her face contorts with a mixture of pain and pleasure, her legs clutched around his waist, willing him to move. He slides back and thrusts in again, her body curving into him, head falling back onto the floor, a soft whimper escaping her lips.

His forehead falls to hers as he glides into her gently, lips brushing against hers as she threads her hands through his hair, traces her fingers across his broad shoulders and down his back, tracking the scars that litter his skin. He growls under his breath as he kisses her cheek, finding the pulse point on her neck easily and sucking hard, simultaneously rolling a nipple between his finger and thumb.

She moans, pleasure enveloping her senses like she’s falling into the abyss, stars clouding her vision, the scent of leather and spice and strawberries filling the air around them as he rolls his hips into hers, her own hips raising up to meet him halfway.

“Gods, Emma,” he hums against her skin, and she more or less feels his leg kick out to gain some sort of footing as his movements grow erratic, the sound of the tray of strawberries falling to the ground along with the coffee table echoing against the walls of the room, their abandoned red wine spilling onto the hardwood.

He curses under his breath, hips still moving of their own accord and she giggles, downright giggles at him because there’s whipped cream on his foot and it’s all over her calf and the living room is a mess and that wine will surely stain the floors (and she doesn’t even want to attempt to explain this to Henry, let alone the landlord—considering it’s Gold).

“Sorry,” he whispers, wry smirk on his lips.

She hooks her cream filled leg firmly around his waist, flipping them over to ride her hips down onto him, watching as he mouth falls agape, a deep groan sounding from low in his throat. His hand and hook reach up for her hips, guiding her until their both flying over the edge.

(They sleep in the living room that night wrapped in the solace of one another’s arms. She can’t help but keel over in laughter the next morning when he steps on a rogue strawberry on the floor, cursing the fruit to those _seven hells_ he’s always rambling on about).


End file.
